


handle the adamantine fingers

by cryptidhearted



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Gaslighting, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Null Sector, Psychological Horror, Trans Genji Shimada, hacking a cyborg for fun and profit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidhearted/pseuds/cryptidhearted
Summary: “Genji,” He answers, a croaked noise that comes from his throat and not his mouth, the syllables mechanical and unreal, click click click-ing whines. Gen – ji. It is all he knows to say, and he’s in awe of himself, in the moment. In awe of his ability to recall, when the numbness that surrounds him is preventing him from even feeling any sort of fear, let alone remembering—remembering?“Genji.” It affirms. He pictures approval. “Prognosis is positive, Genji.” It speaks in a way that tells him it’s meant to be comforting. Welcoming, even, the buzzing tone anchoring itself at the nape of his neck with the first wire. The prying tools are working. He can hear them, the whirrs and clicks and beeps and smooth movements over the vacant space of his body. “You will be rebuilt.”
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Genji Shimada
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes something comes to you in a dream, and you really just gotta get it written down.  
> some warnings: dehumanization, unreality, body horror, severe injury, gaslighting, vomiting, some gore, a doctor asks a trans person about menstruation in a strictly medical context if that's something that might bother you.
> 
> [find me on tumblr!](https://cryptidhearted.tumblr.com/)

“System reboot initiated.”

A jolting sensation at the back of his neck is joined rapidly by a sensation of sheer agony enveloping the entire of his left side. It’s reflex to yank his hand up and claw at the back of his neck, first, as it is inherently less familiar; something like a claw grabs his wrist in the same instant he touches the wire, dragging it forcefully down and pinning it against the cool metal wall. His surroundings are cramped; his head nearly brushes what must be the top of a—pod?—and the surface beneath him is smooth, soft, yielding.

“Please do not resist.” A voice says, and it feels less like it’s surrounding him and more like it’s coming from somewhere inside of his skull. The noise rattles and makes him wince, his teeth grinding against the sudden sensation of pain joining the prickling at the nape of his neck. A second claw has attached itself to his other wrist, cool metal against the flesh and what feels like little more than pressure at his left side.

“You are not in danger.” The voice says, the mechanical tinge echoing in his ears. He breathes heavy, unwilling to believe it and finding it more than a little difficult to relax—but the thoughts disappear just as soon as he has them, left only with the involuntary bodily reaction in the form of pounding in his chest. The prickling at the nape of his neck is joined with a series of _click click clicks_ as the claws around his wrists pull him gently up and forward—

He snarls in the sudden increase of pain, spitting a single curse in sharp Japanese and feeling his mouth flood with saliva and blood all at once, and the thing pulling him forward stills. The icy cold numb prickling feeling connects further. What had been a single point at the back of his neck spreads further downwards in precise points along his spine, between his shoulder blades, down his lower back to his tailbone, and the voice in his head grows that little bit louder as the cool numbness and gentle tingling anchors itself inside of him. His chest rises and falls in short, shallow breaths—he wants to breathe deeper, but cannot.

“Location of injury: severe puncture to left abdomen. Damage done to organic and inorganic parts. System damage. Theorized cause: impaled upon rebar. Prognosis: positive. Please do not resist treatment.”

His head is brushing against the top of whatever it is he’s been placed in now that he’s halfway to sitting up. His surroundings are perfectly dark. With his inability to breathe deeply, he feels each trembling movement of his torso moving the wires that had been plugged into his back. It’s cold, frustratingly cold, making him tremble involuntarily as the claws holding his wrists are joined by another at the back of his neck, pulling him back down to the soft surface cautiously and yet in a way that makes him think of a mother cat dragging it’s kitten back to a nest. The wires are not pinned beneath him; thin and silvery appendages take hold of them in much the same way, compensating for the way it makes him lie down.

A red light flashes into view above his head, to the ceiling of his—pod?—and a deep red line crosses it. Scanning his face, he thinks, and the voice in his head continues as one of those silvery appendages presses slowly into his side. Puncture wound, it had said, right? Impaled upon rebar. Organic and inorganic damage.

“Location of injury: severe head trauma.” The mechanical voice rattles around his skull once more. Gentle prodding tools are moving through his hair, and he feels so very numb as his ragged breathing only makes it harder to inhale. “Damage to inorganic retinal nerves. Damage to plating of the skull. Organic parts appear to be mostly intact. System damage.” The red line crosses his face again, and the light feels dim and distant. He feels slightly slack jawed. The sudden pain had made him drool, and he seems unable to stop it. “Organic parts damaged but intact. Theorized cause: severe concussion. Theorized cause: blow to the head. Prognosis: positive. Please do not resist treatment.”

The wire at the back of his neck digs in slightly and he feels himself rather than hears himself moan as the numbness replaces the prickling discomfort. His vision blinks out completely, and yet he cannot bring himself to worry about it as the cautious tools move around his face. He wants to speak, and yet the only noise that comes emanating from his throat is a series of inorganic, nearly musical whimpers. The voice in his head pauses, and he halfway pictures it thinking, as much as something can signify thought without a face.

Cuffs have clicked around his wrist in place of the claws. The same small prying tools—fingers, he thinks—have begun to move over his abdomen, replacing the searing pain at his left side with a soft warmth and then the same cool numbness. Something warm drips down his side and to the bed of his confined space, but as the fogginess grows, he finds it more and more difficult to think very hard on what that might be. Puncture wound, it had said. Puncture wound.

The claws that had been at his wrists now drift lower, feeling at his legs. Legs. Right, he has legs, he realizes, or—

“Location of injury: legs.” The metallic voice feels very far away now, and it feels like it should bother him. The thoughts don’t surface, though, drifting in and out of his awareness. The numbness is comforting. Cooling. Relaxing. “Destruction of inorganic parts. Prosthetic limbs crushed.” He does have legs. He has legs in pieces. The tools touch his thighs, where he still has just enough feeling to know the pressure, and then moves gradually lower, pulling his legs apart to allow another pair of tools more space to pry at the destruction of pieces. “System damage. Prognosis: positive. Recommended treatment is replacement of damaged pieces. Please do not resist treatment.”

He breathes in and out slowly. The darkness of his vision, the cramped space, the prying tools—exhaustion sets in on him again quickly, and he tries to breathe deeper again, the shallow and careful movements of his chest not being nearly enough. He feels the plastic set across his face and gulps in a greedy breath in the same instant as it fastens itself across his cheeks. Something clicks beneath his chin, some dim pressure—his lower jaw was replaced a long time ago, wasn’t it? Was that an injury that needed to be addressed, was that—treatment?

He breathes in again as a soft hiss rings out in his tight surroundings, and he feels his whole body tense involuntarily.

“Name of patient?” The voice says, signifying expectation, and he breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

“Genji,” He answers, a croaked noise that comes from his throat and not his mouth, the syllables mechanical and unreal, _click click click_ -ing whines. _Gen – ji._ It is all he knows to say, and he’s in awe of himself, in the moment. In awe of his ability to recall, when the numbness that surrounds him is preventing him from even feeling any sort of fear, let alone remembering—remembering?

“Genji.” It affirms. He pictures approval. “Prognosis is positive, Genji.” It speaks in a way that tells him it’s meant to be comforting. Welcoming, even, the buzzing tone anchoring itself at the nape of his neck with the first wire. The prying tools are working. He can hear them, the whirrs and clicks and beeps and smooth movements over the vacant space of his body. “You will be rebuilt.”

“Thank you,” He says, because it feels the proper thing to say, as if it’s the only thing he can say. One word after another. Again, he pictures approval, as if the thing in his head and the twist of the wire is pleased with him. He can’t think deeply enough to linger on it.

“Initiating system shutdown.” It says, gently.

A single jolt, and emptiness replaces consciousness.

A rumbling. Soft.  
Something in the distance, almost, something faraway.  
  


Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

Angela clicks her pen incessantly. He’d say he hates it, but it’s long since faded into simply being a fact of life when around her; she clicks her pen as she thinks, and with the expression on her face he’s left unable to tell if it’s a good fidgeting thought or a bad fidgeting thought, because Angela Ziegler very rarely gives away anything at all.

“You’re making very good progress.” She says, finally, her lightly accented English directed less at him and more at the clipboard in her hands. “We’re impressed to see you up and walking so quickly; this technology hadn’t been tested much, if at all, before we attached it to you, so you are as much a trial run as you are a final product.” Here she chuckles lightly, and Genji stares blankly at her.

“I assume that you have meant that as good news.” He replies somewhat flatly from his place on the exam table.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Angela laughs slightly, in that way that always makes him think she’s mimicking something she feels obligated to, and tucks platinum blonde hair behind her ears. Her icy blue eyes are bright and pleased as she looks up from her clipboard finally, towards Genji. “You’re progressing better than any of us would have ever thought you would.”

A part of him feels—bitter, almost. Did they not expect him to die on her operating table, even after he’d agreed to their experiments? The desire is not to prove himself. The desire is to see himself intact, whole enough to pick up his blade again. To clutch the weapon in his hand that is as much himself as the rest of his body is, an extension of his limb, and— he feels guilty, suddenly. A sharp, angry guilt, grief and sorrow jolting through him. To clutch the weapon in his hand that is as much himself as the rest of his body is, an extension of his limb, and cut his traitor brother down. Cut him to shreds the way he had, see him burnt and bloody and eviscerated at his feet. Was it not right? Does he not deserve his retribution?

“I hope to continue being impressive.” Genji’s monotone voice does not change. He doesn’t raise his voice enough to let it have nuance, to make his anger and frustration and hunger more apparent. “Am I to be cleared for training soon?”

“Training?” An expression of confusion crosses Angela’s face. “What do you--?”

“Reyes told me that he intended to help me kill my brother.” There is no point in avoiding bluntness. She wouldn’t have picked up on the nuance in his voice anyway, and he has no need to emphasize it for her. Angela Ziegler isn’t that kind of woman. “And yet, all I have endured so far are your recovery regimens and insistences that I not be allowed any further out of your hospital than you can see.”

“Training.” She echoes, her expression becoming one of slight distaste. He knows better than to guess at why that is. “What your body went through should have destroyed it, Genji. I understand that you are eager—” He knows full well she does not, “—but if you do not give yourself time to become reacquainted with yourself and the way this new body works, you may very well destroy it in the process.”

Destroy it in the process? Was he not already destroyed? Ripped to pieces by a man that he trusted, by a man that he loved so deeply—a man he didn’t value, a man he betrayed, a brother who he should have tried to support—who had stabbed him in the back and burnt him from the inside out and Angela wants to talk to him about—not destroying his body? Another sudden pulse of guilt is joined with disgust and nausea, and Genji sighs sharply through his nose.

“Very well.” He grunts. “I was promised more than an experiment, Doctor Ziegler.”

“I understand that, Genji, but none of us want the technology to fail and see you dead before your time.” Those blue eyes watch him, carefully. “We have no wish to treat you as an experiment, but that does not change that this is deeply experimental technology, and your life hinges on it’s successes just as well as your goals do.” He knows on reflex that she’s busy measuring his responses just as well as she’d measure his breaths, because any concerning deviation must be reported. Reyes has his eyes fixated hard enough on this project that Genji’s surprised he hasn’t deigned to visit a few more times himself.

Genji swallows the nausea and looks away from Angela with a furrow of his brows, shifting his weight on the exam table. He wants to argue with her. He shouldn’t argue with her. He wants to argue with her because he knows he’s ready to continue, but if she insists still on therapies and experiments and watching him move and analyzing his body—he cannot argue. prying gentle tools at his skull and his scalp and at his upper thighs, careful, cautious, unscrewing—Genji sighs through his nose, shuts his eyes, and tips his head back.

“What do we need to do today, Doctor Ziegler?” He asks, because that’s what will move the conversation forward, and if he isn’t arguing with her she’ll be more inclined to see his progress and let _him_ move forward to where he wants to be.

The woman’s demeanor seems to shift all at once, her placid expression becoming pleased and her body straightening up slightly.

“I just want to hear how you’re doing.” Angela explains, quite calmly, her voice remaining much the same tonally and the clicking of her pen continuing on as meaningless background noise. Click, click, click, click. “Any soreness? Pain, nausea? We’ve operated on much of your body, so there’s quite a bit to keep an eye on. Are you sleeping well? Have you been able to eat?”

Yes, so much soreness he cannot lift his body in the morning. So much pain pulsing through him on such a frequent schedule that he sleeps like the dead and craves something to make it easier, and gives himself no relief but his sheer anger. He cannot eat the way he used to. Food tastes like next to nothing on his repaired tongue, but there is a team of people determined not to allow him to starve—and he supposes that’s good enough, for what he wants.

“No change.” Genji answers her questions, because he doesn’t know how else to placate her. “The same as everything I have told you before.”

The pen keeps clicking. Click, click, click. It stops long enough for her to scribble on her clipboard and Genji’s struck for a moment that that… doesn’t seem quite right. Dr. Ziegler prided herself on being surprisingly technologically savvy, and he can count on one hand the amount of times he had arrived to a meeting with her to see her holding a genuine _pen_ and _clipboard_ instead of a datapad and stylus. He blinks—

and there is a change, Ziegler sat before him instead of standing, a screen elevated in front of her, displaying the data of his body and the click click click has been replaced by a tap tap tap of the stylus on the datapad in her hands. His brows furrow, and it strikes him as odd—but then, his observational skills are slipping, aren’t they? He’s so tired. So sore, so often. Tap, tap, tap. He slips, a little.

“Did you put your clipboard away?” He questions, numbly, and Angela tilts her head at him.

“I don’t own one.” She answers. “What about your other general health? Headaches or anything? It seems unlikely that you will ever menstruate again, but it is good to be aware of—”

“You did not ask me that question.”

“Hm?”

Genji doesn’t bother hiding the disgust in his voice. It isn’t that it—bothers him, but after seeing the sudden shift in the scene he feels—disoriented. Like his mind is lagging behind his eyes. Filling in gaps.

“You already asked me what my pain was like. And you have never asked me about my menstruation.”

“I am certain that I have, Genji.” Angela says, gently.

“You have not. You have never had reason to.”

“Hm.” She scribbles something on her clipboard writes something in a smooth hand on the datapad and sighs, gently, shaking her head. And shaking her head. “I just want to hear how you’re doing. Any soreness? Pain, nausea? We’ve operated on much of your body, so there’s quite a bit to keep an eye on. Are you sleeping well? Have you been able to eat?”

“No change.” His mouth forms the words for him. “The same as everything I have told you before.”

“A shame there is no improvement.” Angela says apologetically, click click clicking away at her pen. “But I am very glad to see you upright and moving. Reyes will be coming to give you your assignment any day, I think—I will, at least, be giving my approval, as I do agree that you need to be pushed for us to see if you’re really making progress.”

Genji feels rather than hears his agreement, staring blankly at the flickering light of the screen and the places that the body lights up. Head, legs, abdomen. Blinking red, warning symbols flickering to the side of them. He breathes in.

His lungs hurt.

“Now,” Angela says, “Where is your pain at?”

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

Rumbling, louder now.  
Sounds of something rushing in his ears.  
Quiet.

Quiet.

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

“System reboot initiated.”

He opens his eyes.

The screen placed above him is polished to glass-like shine, a slow movement of the red line down and across it only vaguely keeping his attention as he steadies his breathing. The mask is still there, helping him with it, each inhale and exhale aided. The slow, cold numbness pulses out from the ports in his artificial spine in a steady flow, like a current through a river that spreads from the centerpiece of his chest to his empty extremities. He is aware, dimly, of the heartbeat in his chest and what should be the warmth of it, but it is stopped entirely by the current leeching away the heat from him.

“Good morning, Genji.” The voice has not changed, where it lingers somewhere at the nape of his neck and croons into the rest of his skull, which feels like a cavernous emptiness. He’s left simply accepting that it’s morning, too; his surroundings have not changed, cramped darkness and a soft surface beneath his body. His wrists are still restrained, as are his ankles, and yet he finds it difficult to let that bother him very much; the red of his eyes fixate blankly at the mirror-like screen, staring at his own face.

The prying tools between his legs are tightening something into his knee. He doesn’t bother looking; he knows, instinctively, that the wire at the nape of his neck will not allow him to lift his head. The last repairs left on his legs, he supposes, since it would be easiest to begin with that— How long has he been asleep?

“The damage to your limbs has been repaired successfully.” The voice says, it’s lilting tone sounding vaguely like it’s supposed to be happy, or else is doing some sort of imitation of it. “We have replaced the limbs where they had been crushed. The nerve damage and system damage within the area has also been repaired. We do not expect further trouble.”

“Thank you,” He answers, because he feels it’s the only thing he can say and because it wants him to, the noise coming from his throat more than his mouth.

“Unfortunately, we have been unable to repair the damage to your head yet. Prognosis is still positive. Work will begin soon. First, we will repair the puncture wound. Organic parts require more time.”

“Thank you,” he says again, because it wants him to.

“Patient speaks and listens well.” It says, and he knows it isn’t talking to him, but he cannot think very hard to be sure who’s responding. Someone must, because the voice at the nape of his neck once more signifies it’s approval, and Genji breathes deep.

“Initiating system shutdown.” It says, cheerily, and Genji’s eyes close for him.

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

The bed beneath him is soft and warm and Genji allows himself to stretch out, catlike in the sunshine as his face nestles into the pillow under his head. His arms are wrapped around it, clinging tight to it as he breathes in and out, baring his teeth against a yawn. Satisfied with the movement, he settles again, keeping his eyes closed and digging metal and flesh fingers into the mostly-squashed pillow.

A warm hand at his lower back, calloused fingers digging leisurely into the spot that’s known to ache more than the rest of his body without having to be asked, and Genji makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a moan.

“M’not done sleeping.” He complains, not opening his eyes nor making any attempt to lift his head.

“Are ya?” The warmth of the voice says with a slight chuckle, and he feels rough fingers on smooth skin, moving from artificial parts to scar tissue and back again. “N’here I was thinkin’ I’d give you a treat for lookin’ so sweet this early in the mornin’.”

“A treat?” Genji scoffs and resists the urge to roll his eyes as meandering fingers linger at his hips. “I see that you are thinking very highly of yourself today.”

“Don’t I always?”

“It’s a terrible trait.”

“Mmh.”

What was just fingertips digging into his skin becomes a hand pressed against him, smooth. He’s naked, and that thought only makes the sunlight filtering in through the curtains above the bed that much more appealing. The whole of the other man’s palm pressed against his hip, just between the bone and the curve of his ass, lingering there in a way that Genji knows is suggestive and yet waiting for permission in the same moment.

Genji’s eyes crack open, finally, and the rest fills itself in. McCree weighing down the other side of the just slightly too-small bed, leaning on his prosthetic with his other hand on Genji’s skin. The soft smell of him, the alluring scent that is so inherently _him,_ and the soft, tired smile on his face. The red of Genji’s eyes linger on his face, the warmth and the gentle touch weighing him down into the mattress. Something sweet perfumes the air. Flowers, he thinks, in passing, some gift that his lover’s theatric tendencies couldn’t resist.

“Y’slept late today, pumpkin.” McCree’s heavy drawl comments lightly, his hand moving from his skin to trace along the artificial spine in the absence of Genji’s approval. “Not like you. Feelin’ worn out?” There’s affection and teasing both in his voice, and Genji’s reply is a slight snort as he stretches out again. Jesse’s roaming fingers circle around the places that Genji knows the ports in his back are, but don’t linger, coming slowly up to the back of his neck.

“Just enjoying myself.” He replies as he adjusts how he lays in the pillow, red eyes half closed at the comforting sensation of the cowboy’s fingers digging gently into the back of his neck. “I’ve been travelling for too long.” Soft, steady movements, all affection and warmth. They’ve been apart for too long. It’s hard not to want to touch.

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

McCree’s hand lays flat against the back of his neck for a moment and the man gives a soft, thoughtful noise—and then sighs, dramatically, his gentle roaming interrupted by him collapsing onto the mattress himself and dragging Genji towards him with a squeak. The cyborg only manages a few aborted noises of protest as Jesse’s arms wrap around him tight, holding him close in a way that suggests he will not be allowing any squirming away—and Genji relents with a frustrated sigh, nestling his head under his chin and closing his eyes again. McCree’s hand returns to the back of his neck, and then threads his fingers through his dark hair, fingertips massaging his scalp as Genji’s body relaxes against his chest. He relents, though not without a pout, arms wrapping around his partner, flesh fingers curling around his prosthetic wrist.

“Enjoyin’ yerself.” Jesse muses, tilting his head slightly to rest his cheek against the crown of Genji’s head. “M’sure you are.”

“Am I not supposed to?”

“Restin’ on yer laurels ain’t what I expected from you, considerin’ the news, but—”

“News?”

There’s a pause that hangs in the air, and it’s not—it’s not quite right, he realizes, slowly.

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

McCree’s steady breath seems to come slower than he’d expect it to, his hefty inhale and gradual exhale through his teeth, carrying the scent of bourbon and cigarettes even when the indulgences had been forgotten the night before. He speaks again, but the noise sounds faraway and muffled, like it’s being drowned out by something else, and Genji makes an attempt to lift his head as the man’s embrace becomes that little bit tighter to prevent him from moving. It has become—restrictive, in a way, and Genji wants to pull himself away from it (as he knows full well he could) but finds himself unable to so much as twitch. He breathes in slowly as the silence rushes in once again, the moment pausing and dragging itself on beyond what it should.

His ears are ringing, a sharp, screeching sound.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“You said something.”

“Nah, I didn’t… y’hearin’ things, doll?”

“I—” The ringing in his ears increases and he shuts his eyes again, nestling into Jesse’s chest. “No,” Genji says, finally, though his tone is dubious. “I misheard.” He feels the man hold him that little bit tighter, and feels McCree’s chest rise and fall.

“I could fall asleep like this again, I think.” Jesse says with a breathy, low chuckle, and Genji allows himself to lean into the warmth instead of the sense of unease. He’s only tired. He’s only feeling worn out, worn down. He’d been travelling for so long, and he needs the rest.

“That makes two of us.” Genji replies, and the hand on the back of his head stops, cradling him gently. “Do we have anywhere to be?”

“No,” Jesse answers. “Nah. We don’t. Get some rest, we can always make plans later.”

“Mmh.”

The warmth of the sunlight on his back is soft and soothing and accompanies McCree’s hand so well that he doesn’t want to think about how the ringing in his ears won’t fade even as he tries to tuck his head into his lover’s chest. There’s something wrong, here, he knows, the ringing replacing a sound that he can’t remember, that should be there and isn’t, and the rising nausea makes him bite down on his tongue. He tastes metal. Iron and copper. Like sucking on pennies. He doesn’t want to think about it, because he wants to stay in this moment, because he knows how warm and safe and comfortable he had felt for the first time in years, enveloped in the arms of Jesse McCree and wanting to stay, wanting to stay, wanting to stay, but something is—something doesn’t—match—

“I do not want to sleep anymore.” He murmurs into Jesse’s bare chest, and he feels the other man laugh breathily, his fingers still curling in Genji’s hair and his grip still restrictively tight. He feels like he should be uneasy, but he isn’t. McCree has never hurt him before, hasn’t he? Never so much as accidentally. And yet that’s—not right either, he remembers distinctly the feeling of a gun pressed against his cheek so many so many _so many_ years ago—

_“How do I know you ain’t a traitor, huh? Playin’ us for fools—”_

he is safe and warm and comfortable here (where?), safe and warm and comfortable with the man he loves and yet the nausea won’t stop. Yet the moment he realized the scene had stopped itself, it became clearer, the curtains no longer moving, the sunlight no longer dappling, the soft movement of McCree’s eyes looking down at him paused in the midst of a blink leaving his eyes half-closed and somewhere between sleepy and sultry and so very very _absent_ , and Genji feels bile rising in the back of his throat.

“I need to—wake up. Jesse? I need to--”

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

The cot beneath him is uncomfortable and digging into his body in a way he doesn’t like, but Blackwatch budgets, as far as he has any knowledge of, have never gone towards the comfort of agents so much as their efficiency. It is a direct downgrade from his time in the hospital under Doctor Ziegler’s diligent care, but it means he has the benefit of being in action rather than stasis. The pillow under his cheek is, perhaps, the most comfortable object to sleep on in the room, and yet even that is barely more support than the floor. The blanket he’d been provided is draped halfway around his bare hips, dragged upward a little bit more over the side of his body that’s more flesh than machinery to keep his teeth from chattering. It’s cold, and he’s tired, and feels so god damn sore that moving is going to be more of a challenge than he’s willing to rise to at the moment.

It’s not a surprise when the door to his room (cell? Does Reyes trust him?) slides open with a smooth hiss, and Genji opens his eyes in the same moment as the sound registers in order to see McCree standing in the doorway, arms crossed (intact?) over his chest and a cigar between his teeth. His expression is one of slight bemusement and warm affection and it strikes Genji as off very quickly.

“Y’ain’t sleepin’ in again, are ya?” He comments as he removes the cigar from between his teeth, blowing smoke through pursed lips and filling the air with the scent of tobacco and bourbon and it is incongruent, Genji thinks, but it is comfortable enough that he wants to ignore the creeping doubt. “Reyes wanted t’know where y’disappeared to. I said I’d come check in on you, see if you were doin’ okay.” Jesse laughs, slightly; “He told me not t’get too caught up in spendin’ time with you. Guess he’s still mad ‘bout that time we got caught.”

Genji grits his teeth, feels a jolt of anger through him because the memory insists that he must, but he knows he wouldn’t have been angry at that comment—it wouldn’t have been made in the first place, and by the time it _did_ fit the scene, he would’ve laughed with him.

“I could not get up.” Genji replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh.” Jesse’s expression becomes one of concern just as quickly as he’d laughed. “Y’alright?” The cigar is—dropped, extinguished, gone to give McCree a free hand as he approaches, kneeling by the side of the cot and placing his hand on Genji’s back, between his shoulderblades. He’d dragged himself into a comfortable enough position to compensate for the pain pulsing through the whole of his body, and he’s halfway surprised to find himself lying flat on his stomach instead of on his side or his back as McCree’s thumb rubs gently against the port under his hand. A gesture intended to be soothing that instead sends another wave of agony through him, back first, and makes his stomach twist in on itself uncomfortably.

“It hurts.” Genji replies in lieu of saying anything else, grinding his mismatched teeth. He expects it to be less centralized, he thinks, the soreness and pain of his body should stretch beyond just the singular areas—and yet his head is pulsing pain through the whole of the rest of him, something worse than any migraine or drug-induced hangover he’s ever had the misfortune of experiencing.

“M’sorry.” McCree’s voice has dropped lower and his face comes closer to Genji’s gradually, the hand moving from his back to his cheek. With the way he comes closer, he halfway expects that Jesse’s trying to check his pupils—but he would know better than to do that. His eyes were one of the first things to be replaced, as they’d been burned out of his skull and had quite urgently needed it. Genji flinches away from the touch against his eyelid, involuntarily. “I’ll tell Reyes y’can’t make it. We’ll figure out how t’handle things from here. You should get some more rest, I’ll—I’ll call Doctor Ziegler, get her t’check in on you ‘stead’a Moira, and I’ll—”

The concern makes sense, he thinks, aware of the lack of cigar smoke on Jesse’s breath. His lover is worried about him. Why would he not be? Days like these are rarities in the long run, the days where the pain is so severe and compounding that even breathing too deeply hurts somewhere deep inside of him, days where he well and truly regrets that he never wanted to say no to every proposed experiment. Except.

Except Jesse’s face doesn’t carry the wear of age; he’s younger, scruffy still but in a more managed way, his hair shorter and his eyes bright and his breath still sweeter than he’s grown familiar with. A kiss to his forehead and Genji breathes in slowly because breathing too deep too fast will hurt him, but he knows this is incongruent as Jesse moves back and rubs his thumb gently against the scar tissue where Genji’s flesh cheek meets his artificial jaw.

“This is not right,” Genji says, numbly.

McCree stares at him, expression vacant. His hand stills, fingers lingering near his eye.

“We hated each other in Blackwatch.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to sound so insistent. He regrets it, just as quickly. “You did not trust me.”

“Naw, honey, I didn’t hate you.” McCree replies, shifting back. He’s kneeling beside the cot with his hand still on the side of Genji’s head, thumb dangerously close to his eye, but posture and voice conveying nothing but softness. “I didn’t trust you, sure, but you didn’t trust me, neither.”

Jesse’s mouth forms the words that Genji’s in the process of thinking and the urge to vomit only increases.

“I didn’t think mucha you outside’a how sure I was you’d kill me someday th’second a mission didn’t go the way y’wanted it to.” He continues. “And you said more’n once you were just waitin’ for th’chance to make sure I wouldn’t be gettin’ in your way when it really came down to it. We’ve talked ‘bout this, remember?”

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

He does remember—but he doesn’t remember it here, in a Blackwatch cot, he remembers it in a safehouse somewhere in Russia, when the winter cold had paralyzed him unexpectedly and McCree had cradled his head in his lap while they talked about what in hell their relationship had become by then, because what had been hatred and mistrust and disgust had _changed,_ somehow, and— A sudden sound of wind. Whistling through the window that should not and was not there in his little cell in Zurich, in Blackwatch, snow piling against it and the room feeling colder and colder. A swift sensation of dizziness overtakes him and Genji makes to grab at the wrist close to his face, flesh fingers digging bruisingly into it. He expects his hand to go through it, and is distantly shocked when it doesn’t.

The contents of his stomach are, by the looks of it, near exclusively blood and bile, and he doesn’t know if he shoved McCree back to avoid getting it on him or out of disgust from the touch of a stranger on his face. Drool drips from Genji’s lips as his body convulses and trembles, doubled over the side of the cot with one hand clutching tightly to the edge; the splatters on the floor are a _disgusting_ sound, spit on concrete, and he feels himself shivering against the cold.

“Oh, baby.” Jesse says, pityingly, in a voice that he should _know_ Genji would hate, “Y’need to sleep it off.”

“No,” Genji hisses, cold and angry and trying his hardest to find it in him to panic, to resist, to feel _something_ other than _numb,_ “I need to-- _wake up_.”

Shrill, angry, furious beeping, signifying anger and frustration and disapproval and his mouth burns from the bile as his eyes open, as his hands claw fruitlessly at the soft floor beneath him in a desperate and empty bid to escape. His surroundings are much smaller than previously expected, leaving him feeling constricted and immobile and yet—

And yet he is aware, more awake than he has been for—how long? How long at all? He can’t remember. He can’t remember where _here_ is, let alone know how he _go_ t here, or manage even an inkling of _why_ he’s here to begin with.

“Please do not resist treatment.” The mechanical voice intones.

“Fuck you.” Genji snarls, feeling blood and bile drip down his chin from between his teeth.

“Patient is extremely agitated.”

“ _Obviously_.”

Genji squirms, shifting the whole of his body in an attempt to free himself, trying to so much as _see_ the rest of himself— his awareness may be back, but his feeling isn’t, anything below his shoulders feeling like dead weight even as his real hand makes to reach for his torso. He feels it in the fingertips like distant numb pressure, the places where yielding flesh meets smooth synthetics—and just long enough for one of the claws to have previously grabbed him realize his movement, closing around his wrist and firmly making to hold him down against the side of his claustrophobic prison.

“Please do not resist treatment.”

“Let me _go_ \--!”

Were it not his flesh arm, he thinks he’d be willing to put up more of a fight. Hell, he’s struck in this moment of clarity that he doesn’t really need his remaining limb, and gnawing through the rest of it to get himself out like a coyote gnawing it’s leg off to get out of a trap wouldn’t _really_ be that terrible of a loss—but the restraints tighten before he can even consider starting trying to wrench his arm from it’s socket, one around his wrist, one at the elbow, and one at the shoulder.

“Patient is uncooperative.”

“Stop _touching_ me!”

He jerks his whole body in a desperate attempt at resistance—and feels himself choke.

Blood and bile floods his mouth again, drool following, and it’s all Genji can do to turn his head not to spit it all up on himself. It doesn’t help matters much; as he turns his head and spits, the mess of it simply drips out of his mouth and onto the cushioning beneath his body, leaving an unpleasant puddle as he struggles to breathe. There is some sense of disapproval from the prison around him, and it shifts him delicately to his side, propping his head up for him.

His eyes roll back in his head, briefly, and he remains slack jawed, anger and frustration pulsing through him as the dead weight of his body is supported by tools and restraints.

“Source of damage: resistance to treatment.” The voice intones in clear frustration, and Genji tries again to focus on the wall in front of him. So close his nose is almost touching it. If he moves his head forward at all, his forehead will touch it. The space has shrunk around him. “Further damage to organic parts. Further damage to inorganic parts.”

There is a brief sensation near his hip, just above, to the place where the synthetic flesh and what he was born with meld, too far away from the scar tissue for him to be certain which part of his body is damaged. But he feels it move, feels it shift and so shift his body in the process, and feels the distinct discomfort of something _pulling_ on the inside of him as it does.

“System damage.” It says, and Genji hisses at it as it tips his head forward for him, pressing his forehead against the smooth surface. It’s cold, and he feels—feverish. It is, despite himself, a relief. “Body temperature rising-- fever of 102 Fahrenheit.”

Beeping. Clicking. Whirring.

“Surgery continues. Prognosis: positive, given patient cooperation.” It’s words are punctuated in a way that Genji thinks should be considered a threat, somewhere in the hazy mess his mind is becoming. Gentle, prying tools make to wipe his mouth and jaw for him—the disgusting sensation of lying in his own bile is becoming further and further away, and he wonders briefly if the surface beneath him was made to clean it away. A prickling at the back of his neck—

The plug is replaced to its proper port, and Genji stifles his moan with his teeth as the numbing sensation from below his shoulders only increases, spreading and pulsing back up his neck and to his head along with it, the smooth and cooling current taking away all sensation and slowing even the painful racing of his heart. His head hurts. His chest hurts. All of him hurts, the sort of constant, quiet pain he’s grown far too familiar with in the years since his supposed death, and there is no comfort to be found. He breathes in and out slowly, and feels some place behind his eyes sting—fresh tears don’t do well for healing tissue, he supposes as he grinds his teeth, vision growing blurry and body slowly, slowly, slowly relaxing.

“Re-initiating system shutdown.” The mechanical voice is back inside his skull in a place it insists it belongs, echoing out from the nape of his neck, and Genji’s vision goes black once more.

Quiet.  
Blessed, blessed quiet.

His head is aching and the whole of his body feels heavy, over-heated, nauseated and weighed down. Genji struggles even to open his eyes, and he guesses that if he did, they would only sting against the soft light in his bedroom. The luxurious mattress underneath him cradles him quite well and, blessedly thanks to the slight crack in his window to the winter outside, the room itself feels cool when he manages to shove his blankets entirely off of himself, save for what is gathered halfway under his hand.

He doesn’t remember the last time he felt so _sick_. It wouldn’t matter, normally; he was more than capable of enduring plenty of handicaps that should’ve killed the average person. Father had made sure of that, enough to make sure that the very taste of poison on his tongue meant nothing—and yet a fever has him on his ass, feeling utterly immobilized, and uncomfortably like he’s going to vomit. He pants for breath and imagines smoke rising from his lips—he hadn’t even managed to clean his makeup off from the night before, and he knows the sweat and painted colors are undoubtedly smearing themselves across his mattress and pillows and blankets, and the thought makes Genji feel that much more disgruntled. What’s the point of prettying himself up if it’s only going to be ruined in the morning? The heat is worse. God, the heat is worse, and he wishes it were only a goddamn hangover.

There’s a gentle knock on his door as he considers how much effort it would take him to force his window the rest of the way open and crawl out into the snow, and Genji’s dark eyes open very slowly. His room is dark, and there isn’t much of a pause between the knock and when the door opens and a silhouette appears in the light that spills into his view.

“Genji?” Hanzo’s voice is, characteristically, heavily annoyed. “Father sent someone for you two hours ago. Are you still sleeping?”

“Anija.” Genji whines, pitifully. “Help.”

He can practically feel it when Hanzo rolls his eyes—though something clearly seems to give his brother pause, as the man steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him, lingering in the moment after he has as if considering his plan of action. He sighs through his nose, and then approaches, standing at Genji’s bedside and looking down at him with an expression of dubiousness.

“Are you hungover?”

“No, m’not.”

“Are you sure? Did you take something you should not have last night?”

“Hanzo,” Genji’s reply is a breathy groan. “I didn’t.”

Hanzo answers him with a low grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed. Genji doesn’t move any as he feels the feather mattress shift under his brother’s new weight and closes his eyes again. His lips part in a shuddering breath as Hanzo finally reaches out to put his hand against his forehead. The other man’s touch is soothing and sickening all at once, doing nothing to help the clammy feeling of the rest of his body and yet being an excellent reminder of someone being _close_ to him—someone who can _help_. Hanzo’s hand presses against his sweaty forehead and his brother makes a low, disapproving noise, before running his hand through Genji’s sweat-damp hair.

“You have a fever.”

“No shit?”

“And yet you still have an attitude.” Hanzo snorts his smothered laugh. It’s clear he knows Genji didn’t mean anything by it. His hand withdraws, and Genji tilts his head to nestle into his pillow again, baring his teeth against the drool in his mouth and willing himself not to be sick all over his brother. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to focus too hard on it for very long—the nausea is swallowed down and Hanzo moves away in the same moment, heading over towards Genji’s closet. Genji follows his movements exclusively with sound, the near-silent footsteps and the smallest click when the door’s opened. Easy enough to miss, if he weren’t directly listening to it. What follows is the sound of hangers and drawers shifting until Hanzo’s found whatever it is he’s looking for, and then the quiet sound of his return.

“Up, Genji.” Hanzo’s voice is still firm, but something softer has crept into his voice. “You cannot sleep in those clothes.”

What is he wearing, again? He’d been out the night before. A neon green, mesh shirt (doesn’t cover his scars enough for him to want to wear it—scars? What scars? Top surgery scars, of course, not--) that’s soaked through and sticking to him uncomfortably, and leather pants—no wonder he feels so terribly constricted at the moment, not to mention so damn overheated.

Genji takes a deep breath and tries to will himself to move. It takes him a few moments to find the ability to remember how to use his arms, let alone move them—and it’s a relief when he gets halfway up to have Hanzo helping him up the rest of the way, letting him sit up in his bed and stare blankly at his brother. Hanzo’s arms are full of the breeziest pair of his pajamas possible, a loose shirt (too big for him, he’s never owned that, he doesn’t think) that’s nearing threadbare (it isn’t his?) and a pair of pajama pants made of soft, thin fabric. He doesn’t kick up any fuss as Hanzo sets the pajamas down beside him and gestures for him to move enough to help him undress, and it’s almost a relief when Hanzo peels the crop top (?) off of his torso and throws it unceremoniously to the ground. To his credit, Genji doesn’t feel too terribly dizzy when he makes to undo his own pants and save his brother the trouble, though they do get stuck around his ankles, briefly. Hanzo hands him the threadbare pajama shirt. Genji puts it on without complaint, and lets his brother take off the pants the rest of the way, lifting his legs slightly to help with the rest of the ordeal to get him dressed again in clothes that aren’t drenched in sweat.

“Good,” Hanzo murmurs. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” Genji answers, even though he feels his mouth form ‘no’, “Thank you.” It’s a wonder he has it in him to speak at all, considering the dizziness and the nausea.

“Good.” Hanzo repeats, and there’s a moment where Genji’s sure he’s going to leave it at that and go back to handling whatever it is that their Father needed him for. There’s work to be done that Genji will be unable to participate in—he shouldn’t feel guilty for that. He’s never felt guilty making Hanzo do whatever he didn’t want to before, why—?

His thoughts are interrupted by Hanzo hooking an arm under his and hoisting him up into his arms. Genji makes a small noise of protest, but another wave of nausea washes over him and there’s a jolt of pain at the sensation of being lifted, and whatever words he might have had die in his throat.

“I will send someone to clean these sheets.” His brother’s firm tone lingers on. “They are filthy, and you will not sleep well enough to recover like this.” The concern feels—odd. It should feel odd, Genji thinks, and yet it’s far too easy to relax and put his head on his brother’s shoulder and close his eyes as Hanzo adjusts his grip on him enough to carry him easily.

He doesn’t need to count the steps to their destination, because he knows it well enough from nights spent shying away from thunderstorms or angry parents by climbing into his brother’s bed. Hanzo’s room is not far from his, and the only thought Genji has is that the window in his room is left open.

“The window,” He mumbles as Hanzo opens the door to his own room—in much better shape than Genji’s own—and his brother raises a brow.

“It wasn’t open, Genji.”

“It was, I… I opened it. Before I fell asleep.”

“I closed it, Genji.”

He wants to object, but he cannot find the words as Hanzo makes to set him down on his bed, on top of the blankets. The pillows are stacked enough to elevate his head slightly, and Genji nestles into them automatically, breathing in and out slowly to steady himself. Hanzo’s hand again presses to his forehead and withdraws, and Genji’s about to object (for the touch or the absence) before he hears the fading footsteps and the sound of running water from behind the bathroom door, across the room.

What returns is the gentle sensation of a cold cloth on his face, and Genji groans low in his throat as it does, the sensation of relief flooding his body all at once. Hanzo doesn’t speak, but Genji knows what he’s doing as a gentle, firm sensation wipes over his eyes, his cheeks, his lips, his forehead. Cleaning away last night’s makeup from where it had been smeared across his face and trying to help cool his fever. It’s a better alternative to throwing himself out into the snow, Genji supposes. His brother’s diligent motions are almost hypnotic, and he feels the tension in his body slowly easing out as Hanzo finishes, stepping away long enough to rinse the makeup out of the cloth and wring it mostly dry once more before coming back to lay it across Genji’s forehead.

“Where were you last night?” Hanzo questions, and his voice sounds—angrier than it should, Genji thinks. More frustrated. It doesn’t match what he remembers, and his head hurts, a searing pain blossoming out from the center of his skull and making his mouth water again as

Hanzo steps away long enough to rinse the makeup out of the cloth and wring it dry before coming back to lay it across Genji’s forehead.

“Where were you last night?” Hanzo questions, and his voice is gentle, the tone saved specifically for when Genji was hurt or scared or upset and it brings back memories of sitting crouched in his bedroom as far away from the window as he could be, _It’s just a storm, otouto. It can’t hurt you._

“That club downtown.” Genji slurs in reply. “The one a few streets over from the arcade.”

“And you are sure you did not take anything you should not have?”

“No. It was just _weed_ , anija.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

It feels like an argument they’ve had before, Genji thinks. Something more suited to the times he’s come sneaking back over the wall to come home to Shimada Castle in the middle of the night instead of when he’s lying in Hanzo’s bed, incapacitated by fever and feeling utterly disgusting and disgusted. His throat burns, but there is nothing left for him to vomit up (he hasn’t?) and so it is simply the discomfort that remains as he nestles his cheek into Hanzo’s pillows.

“I will tell Father about your illness.” Hanzo says, finally, reaching out to adjust the cool (warming?) cloth on Genji’s forehead to cover it better. “He will not be happy, but there is nothing any of us can do for you besides insist you sleep it off.”

“Mmh.”

“I will get water and tell someone to clean your room for you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s just a fever, otouto. It can’t hurt you.” Hanzo replies, and Genji doesn’t give him a clear answer, trying and failing to open his eyes and well and truly look up at his brother’s face. “Rest.”

_Click click click click._

“Name of patient?”

“… Genji.”

“ _Gen-ji_.” The mechanical tone sounds pleased as he stares up at the polished surface before him. “Patient responds positively to stimuli. Recovery proceeding as expected.”

It reflects his face back at him. His inhuman red eyes, ringed with pink. His head, shaved to bare stubble, showing healed scars where he has no doubt that his surroundings have dug into his skull to handle whatever imagined damage was there. His synthetic lower jaw has been cleaned of blood and bile and scratches, and the scar tissue seems more healed than he’s seen in a mirror before. It feels, halfway, like he should know why he needed this attention, but nothing comes to mind. He feels heavy. Tired. It’s woken him from a sleep that he was enjoying, and the thought of returning to it is comforting. Some place warm. Some place soft.

His surroundings feel that much smaller, the rounded ceiling of the pod mere inches away from his face, the top of his head and the tips of his prosthetic toes touching the top and bottom. The soft surface beneath him feels almost as if it’s thickened into more of a cushion, allowing him to sink gently into it’s embrace. It should be comfortable, but through the haze of numbness and the pulsing current through his body, it means little to him.

“Good morning, Genji.” It says from it’s place at the nape of his neck, echoing still through the dull emptiness of his skull. “You have been repaired.”

“Thank you,” Genji replies, automatically.

“Discharge process has begun. Reprogramming will follow.”

That should frighten him, he thinks. Should—disgust him, at least, shouldn’t it? The wire at the nape of his neck has twisted slightly, the device _click click clicking_ away and producing a low, gentle hum in his ears. He knows the reaction he should have, and yet it will not let him. That thought doesn’t bother him, either; the lack of resistance weighs his body down, and Genji stares unblinkingly and blankly up at his own reflection, crimson gaze reflecting the light back down at him.

“Reprogramming for what?” He questions in the same tone of a curious child. He meant more anger. The words don’t come out right.

“Establishment of status as an asset of Null Sector.” It answers, cheerily.

Null Sector.

“Increase detected in patient’s heart rate.”

He knows Null Sector, he thinks. No, he’s certain he knows Null Sector. Paris. Rio de Janeiro. The numb sense of stasis is overridden if only slightly by the sensation of his heart pounding in his chest. It’s louder than the voice in his head is, a constant thudding and heat. Overwatch missions. It comes back to him in a sudden, frightening flood. They’d been in Kyoto, trying to deal with an Omnium that had reactivated itself—rumors of a God AI in the ruins—Null Sector insurrectionists, making their move before the reformed Overwatch could—could—

“Detected agitation unnecessary. Slowing system.”

“No,” He tries, quickly—“No, I do not want—" It had been him and Lena on one side of the massive, crumbling tower of a structure in the heart of downtown Kyoto. She’d been making contact with Winston and Jesse because they’d run into more danger than they’d expected, a greater Null Sector threat than his and her powers would truly be able to cut through, and they’d known it, the building—The building--

“Slowing system.”

Genji’s lips part in a low, breathy sigh as the heat is calmed once again by the slow, numbing current. He can follow it, if he thinks on it too much, feel the bit of ice that emanates from the nape of his neck and flows gently down along the wires in his veins to his extremities, through his heart and back again, a cooling, soothing sensation. His eyes close, halfway.

Resist, he thinks. Fight it. Stop letting them _win_ —

“Slowing system.”

The ice flows through his veins, through wires and blood and the darkness rises to meet him more than he sinks into it. Overwatch. He wills himself to focus. Overwatch, Kyoto. The collapse of the building. Tracer, Echo, McCree’s voice, calling for him, calling for him, calling for him—

Genji breathes in. Holds it. Exhales slowly.

“Initiating system shutdown. Goodnight, Genji.”

“Goodnight,” He answers because he has no say in the matter at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a continuation.  
> warnings for this chapter: grief/mourning, robot apocalypse related trauma, mentions of injuries.
> 
> [find me on tumblr.](https://cryptidhearted.tumblr.com/)

“Jesse, you were supposed to arrive to extraction two hours ago.” Echo’s voice comes through his comm, something soft and lilting and familiar. “Are you in any distress?”

“Naw, darlin’.” McCree chuckles lightly in response. “M’fine. Just runnin’ late, I’ll be back before y’notice I’m gone.”

“That is not possible,” She answers, “I have already noticed.”

“Figure of speech.”

“Oh!” A musical laugh—“Very well. Call if you are in need of help!”

“Of course.”

Hanamura is deserted. Kyoto hadn’t fared well in the wake of Null Sector’s attack, and most folks had opted to flee what was a comparatively smaller city to the larger clusters of humanity still standing in the wake of Null Sector’s reappearance. There hadn’t been an official evacuation order, as far as he knows, so there are still people on the street, occasionally; significantly fewer than he’s ever seen in Hanamura, but people too old or sick to travel, too stubborn to refuse to give up their home, too unwilling to pack themselves into vehicles or train cars and risk the travel, let alone a flight anywhere else. People with nowhere else to go.

They all look haggard, and he knows that to them, he doesn’t look much different. Japan had been relatively untouched in the initial Omnic Crisis, but the danger had been real with an Omnium in the south, and Jesse knows enough to know that they had spent years being on edge because of it. An Omnium with a God AI on the shores of the island was dangerous, an Omnium controlled by Null Sector was quite possibly the worst-case situation. Jesse has known his trips to Japan to usually be the sort riddled with concerns and discomforts, and for a brief moment, he wishes he’d had the damn time to come to this place as a tourist.

The thought occurs—and Jesse has to snort through the bandana pulled over his mouth and nose. Tourist. Isn’t that what he’s doing now? He has no reason to come to Hanamura. No drive to come to Hanamura. No _need_ to come to Hanamura. He hasn’t been stationed here in years—not since Blackwatch—and there are no direct Null Sector threats here. It’s almost nice, really; the cherry blossoms don’t seem to have gotten the message that the world is ending, and they bloom beautifully in the empty streets. There should’ve been festivals and celebration, the traditional spring festival, but the only other person he’s run into since he started his walk has been an old woman, hunched and meandering with a cane, clutching her grocery basket to her chest and muttering to herself in clear distaste. Jesse had been walking carefully, trying to step on as few petals as possible, but the endeavor had had to be abandoned before long when they’d begun blanketing the street.

Shimada Castle stands out in the downtown area, and he gets the feeling that was an intentional design choice.

It is, he knows academically, the oldest set of buildings in Hanamura. It was there first; the city grew around it, from a small village and a single cherry blossom tree to groves and groves of them and a sprawling urban landscape. He doesn’t know how old it is—number details have never stuck with him long. What he does know is that it is—was—Genji’s place of birth, and where he’d grown up.

The sprawling streets of Hanamura must have been as familiar to him as anything else would have been, Jesse guesses to himself as he walks, close to the buildings and away from the street. There’s a morbidity to the thought. Genji was born here. Genji grew up here. Genji once died here. Except—

He sighs through his nose, absently digging through his jacket pocket and pulling the bandana down. Placing a cigarette between his teeth, he lights it, and stares directly forward on his path. Genji had died in Kyoto, according to what every single other mission report said. The building had collapsed on their way out and Genji had been trying to help Tracer. She’d made it out. She’d tried to turn around. Too much smoke and rubble—and there wasn’t much Lena could’ve done with a broken leg, chronal accelerator or not. If anyone had survived the aftermath of that, there was no sign of them, just silence and smoke and the collapsing concrete and rebar and steel.

Silence isn’t right, he thinks, there must have been noise, and yet he hadn’t heard any of it, just the ringing in his ears after Angela had pulled him back, insisting that it was too dangerous for him to go in. And he remembers, as if on cue, the crushing weight of the building threatening to tip forward, silent and looming and… It isn’t worth remembering. It’s not the first time an agent’s been lost on an Overwatch mission. Isn’t the first time he’s lost someone.

He pulls the cigarette from between his teeth, frowns at his shaking hand, shakes his head to dismiss the thoughts and breathes smoke before he replaces it. His hands settle in the pockets of his coat, curling into fists. No point in sitting on those thoughts, and yet he knows where his feet are taking him, knows why he’s two hours late to extraction, knows why he hasn’t turned around even when the streets become more familiar. He’s been here before, this direction, as an envoy (kind word for an unkind purpose) of Blackwatch. So he’s headed to Shimada Castle, and the compound that surrounds it, the vacant heart of the sprawling, empty city.

The sidewalk is empty ahead of him but for one storefront, the sign out front colored paper spread across a collapsible chalkboard written entirely in Japanese. He’s about to simply walk past it, but the man at the storefront calls out a phrase in Japanese that Jesse half knows—

“Foreigner! What are you doing here today?” It isn’t said in a tone that stands out as hostile, so McCree pauses, holding his cigarette between his teeth as he debates continuing to walk on or stopping to chat. The people left in Hanamura these days, he reminds himself, are only the ones who have something holding them back in the city. Blowing smoke from his nose, he turns, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth as he does.

The storefront sells trinkets. Little pieces of paper with well-wishes written on them flutter in the breeze next to small figurines. Hand-carved, he thinks, cheap materials lovingly carved into something much nicer. Dragons, he notices at a glance; dragons, foxes, birds, wolves. It’s for tourists, he knows, this close to one of the primary places of the festival, but he can’t help but wonder how much money the old man is really making when not a soul is able to travel.

“M’on a walk.” Jesse replies in English, because he knows the shopkeeper will understand him. The reply that comes from the old man is an approving _hmm._ “Y’get much business today?”

“Not much.” The old man answers. His English is accented heavier than Jesse thinks his Japanese would be. “I have not seen anyone but you today, sir.”

“Shame,” muses McCree, “Y’got yerself a nice little store here.” His eyes scan over the little trinkets and the attached price tags, humoring the old man to the best of his ability. It doesn’t take much to be kind, and with the way the old man leans forward on his seat, he halfway thinks that the guy just wants somebody to talk to on a cool, cloudy spring day. The breeze disturbs the paper, disturbs the petals around their feet, and the old man gestures to his wares.

“If you see something you like, you may have it.” He says, extending his hands. The proud work of a craftsman. “I would sell many at the festival, but no festival these days. No, no festival these days. Nothing to sell.” He sighs, breathily.

“Unfortunately, I ain’t got room fer somethin’ so nice.” Jesse’s answer is at least apologetic, and he shifts back from his position of examining the whittled wood in order to look the man in the eye again. “Hopin’ you do business with someone a little more charitable’n me.” He offers a wry smile, and the old man gives a slight chuckle.

“Have a nice day.” He bows his head towards Jesse in what is a small gesture of respect, and Jesse returns it without thinking much about it, and makes to depart—though, he’s given pause suddenly at the sight of something carved into the wood to the side of the old man’s shop. The wood itself is worn down, but the sigil is unmistakable, meticulously cleaned and kept. Two dragons, entwined as an ouroboros, embracing one another within a perfect circle. He’s seen it before, and he knows it by heart. Genji used to have it tattooed on his ankle, according to his stories, and more prominently (and somewhat to his chagrin that it wouldn’t be his first thought) it’s carved upon the gates to the Castle. Seeing it on a humble storefront, where it has otherwise been completely absent from most of his wanderings around the empty city, comes as a surprise.

“That symbol, where’d it come from?” McCree can’t help himself, blurting out the question without thinking it through and just barely pulling his eyes away from the carefully maintained sigil.

The old man glances at the two entwined dragons, tilting his head in thought and fixing Jesse with a cautious expression.

“It is the symbol for the Shimada Clan,” He replies, suddenly visibly suspicious. McCree hesitates, and then raises a hand, shaking his head.

“M’a friend.” His attempt to assuage the old man doesn’t seem to have done much, so he adds, “I ain’t trouble, n’I ain’t with th’Clan if that’s what yer worried about.” The man sits back in his spot, still clearly somewhat dubious—but, as well enough as Jesse expected he would be, an old man in need of company will make himself an open book.

“Must be two generations back—I knew the man who ran the Clan before Shimada Sojiro.” He confirms, halfway absentmindedly, his tone suggesting that he doesn’t want to talk about it in equal measure to his desire to share. “He was very kind to me. Kept me employed. Kept my shop running to keep me an honest man.”

“Still keepin’ it runnin’?” Jesse questions, and the old man laughs again, though in a slightly more cautious tone, still; he’s expecting trouble.

“Shimada Sojiro, may he rest well, was kind enough to continue keeping it running, and I was smart enough with my money that missing a festival season will not mean the end of me.”

“S’good to hear.” McCree replies, simply because he doesn’t know what else to say. “You stay safe, yeah?”

“Old bones like mine have been through enough,” The man replies, waving him off. “Enjoy your walk.”

Jesse doesn’t reply as he steps away, replacing the cigarette in his mouth to keep himself from grinding his teeth. Calling Shimada Castle the heart of the city makes enough sense for it to matter. There’s a reason Reyes had his eyes on them for so long. Hanamura had spread out from the center, sprawling out into a village, into a town, into a city, and the historical landmarks have been there for longer than anyone alive can remember without either an encyclopedic knowledge or a history book. The sigil itself—it’s a sign of loyalty, for one, as he can remember using it to get into some meeting or another for Reyes’ benefit, and for another it’s a stark reminder of just who it is that _actually_ runs the city, local government be damned. They answer to the Head of the Shimada Clan first and foremost, men kneeling before dragons.

“Christ.” McCree mutters under his breath as he drops the cigarette from his mouth, grinding it out under his heel and continuing to walk. “Dead’n gone, massive power vacuum, n’y’still got folks willin’ t’sing yer praises.” Old influences die hard, he supposes—and he’s certainly one to talk, given that he hasn’t moved off from his path since he woke up this morning and stepped out of his foxhole. The Shimada _Empire_ , as it was so delicately put previously, had both notoriety and power. It makes sense that there would still be a few—a few either too blind or too well-treated by the Shimadas—to keep their loyalty.

Jesse sighs through his nose. He bristles at the thought, as he knows Reyes would have, as he knows Genji would have, but he’s not here for that. It’s not his place.

The gates to the compound yawn open, these days. Null Sector was through Hanamura, as far as he knows, but only just; scouts and assassins. They considered Shimada Castle to be the place worth attacking, as they were wise enough to know who led it—only, most everyone who was still actually in the Castle itself was either long since dead or hiding out of fear. Servants of the Shimada Clan tended to have short life expectancies since the death and disappearance of the two sons.

McCree doesn’t hesitate to walk through them. He knows it’s a ghost town, now. Knows there isn’t a soul around to bother him. He’s not here for the valuables, or the people, though. He’s here for one guilt-ridden reason, and that involves taking a side path through the compound. His boots make soft sounds on the wood, the stone courtyard, the pathway. It’s funny—It’s been near ten years since he’s ever had a reason to set foot here, and yet the layout is still burned into his mind, some remnant of Reyes’ insistence of memorization and preparation. It’s away from the courtyard and the dojo, though. A quiet pathway, half-hidden at this point by overgrowth, leading down the hill into a small enclosed garden.

Calling it a garden is generous, he supposes, but thinking of it as a graveyard makes the walk feel that much more solemn, and he’d like to pretend he’s not here to mourn.

It’s an old family affair, Jesse knows. Generations of dragon bones, laid to rest centuries to decades to years ago. If they dug down deep enough, part of him wonders if they’d hit something else, unearth the bones of some ancient beast that gave its blood to the members of the Shimada Clan—but then, there ain’t a soul out there with enough bravery and a strong enough shovel. The names are mostly written in kanji, scripts that he half knows the sounds of, but the only one he recognizes at first glance of the stones closest to the entrance is the steady movements that make up the name Shimada. He exhales slowly through pursed lips and wishes for another cigarette as he scans the names, but he has a goal in mind, and he’d rather wait to have it with him.

It isn’t particularly hard to find what he’s looking for. Most of the gravestones are worn down old rocks but for a few, new but for the creeping growth of the flora around them, and they stand out much more than their ancestors do. It’s quiet. The air is cool and there are stray petals on the breeze as he moves delicately over the grass, wishing briefly that he’d known the right words to apologize for traipsing onto ground he doesn’t belong on.

As he steps towards one of the newest graves, Jesse breathes in slow again, breathing out through parted lips and looking for the particular set of markings he’s after. He never did manage to learn much Japanese; he knows enough to say “Hello”, “Goodbye”, “Thank you”, “I don’t speak Japanese”, and “Help”—enough to get by because he has to, not enough to carry a conversation and not enough to know a name at first glance. Except for one, of course. A single set of syllables that he learned and memorized because he wants to, a set of syllables his clumsy mouth would sooner embrace than stumble over. He reaches out with his flesh hand to wipe away the leaves and moss and debris, scanning one stone, two stones, three stones, and a fourth, and he pauses as he does.

His thumb lingers on the first line that makes up Genji’s name, and again the craving for nicotine hits him as he grinds his teeth.

McCree lowers himself gradually down into the grass in front of the stone, sitting cross legged and, for a moment, simply staring at the carvings. There’s a moment where he simply sits, silent, and then he shakes his head, digs in his coat, and produces his pack of cigarettes to light one as he shifts back. There’s no body here. Never was, not when it was first dug and not now. It’s a monument to a memory, and doesn’t even have the luxury of being a properly physical one.

“I’d offer t’share,” He murmurs as he places the cigarette between his teeth, “but you’n I both know yer lungs ain’t made t’handle it anymore, huh?”

A part of him feels foolish. There’s no body here. Genji isn’t listening to him. And yet his feet had taken him here, a procession of one that had started the very instant he’d woken up this morning and really taken in where he was. He hadn’t been thinking about it. Hadn’t even considered it an option. Genji died in Kyoto and McCree had been prepared to mourn him—had been mourning him—since the moment the team had agreed a rescue wasn’t likely. Lena had seen the state he’d been in. Nobody would have survived that, even without a building being dropped on them. He’s always known Genji to be the tough sort; he had to be, given all the experimental tech in his body and how furiously that damn heart was to beat, but even Genji had his limits, and to think of—

McCree sucks in a sharp breath.

No, he doesn’t want to think of that. To think of the way he died, on a mission failure so close to home. Months and months and months ago. He’s been processing it. It isn’t the first time he’s lost someone. It never gets easier, and he’s cynical enough to think it never will. He doesn’t want to think of the way that he died; he’d rather think of the precious moments they _did_ have together, the brief chances of reconciliation brought low by the sudden explosion of conflict. Reconciliation—that is, perhaps, not the right word. They were not at odds with one another. They’d fit together again like puzzle pieces when they’d met again, partners in all senses of the word; Reyes had been right to think that they worked together well. Reconciliation isn’t the word, but he can’t quite think of one that fits better. Homecoming, maybe. Returning. He tips his head back and breathes smoke through pursed lips, closes his eyes and breathes in. It wasn’t enough time, but then, it never was. Is there such a thing in the first place, as enough time with the one you love?

“Yer missin’ out.” He says, lazily. “Nothin’ happenin’ these days but fights’n the kinda downtime where folks’re too restless t’think about anythin’ important. Just the way you like it.”

No, he decides relatively quickly, there isn’t “enough” time. There’s always too little or too much. Both have their merits, he supposes, but he doubts there’s a soul on this earth who wouldn’t prefer too much to too little. Lord knows he would, at least. How long had they had together as a couple? A brief fling in Blackwatch. The few clandestine meetings when he was on the run and Genji was busy following a path trying to find himself. He pictures him in the snow rather frequently, cloaked in shadow or else a warm coat, traversing a mountain path after an omnic monk with his blades nowhere to be found. Genji told him enough about his time in Nepal that Jesse’s taken to thinking of it as a place of peace and calm; a place where, perhaps, Genji would finally feel at ease enough to rest, and rest well. Peace these days is a far-flung and far-fetched ideal, with Null Sector cropping up all over the damn planet and brandishing technology and knowledge that nobody in Overwatch is familiar enough to deal with.

McCree stares blankly at the kanji that make up Genji’s name, resisting the urge to trace it over with his fingers. He knows it by heart. He could follow it with his eyes closed. It doesn’t benefit him to touch, not in the way he’d like to. It would be smooth stone. It would not be the steady curve of Genji’s hip, the smooth texture of his real flesh giving way to bumpy scar tissue (all burns and slashes and surgery scars) and to synthetic skin, different from itself in a way that no stranger could identify but by which Jesse knew himself to be an expert. It isn’t the smooth, cool metal of his prosthetics, warmed under the touch of his skin or his lips. It isn’t him, and it does Jesse no good to be lurking here, some mournful revenant stuck among the rest of the wandering ghosts in Hanamura.

Is he here to mourn, or is he here to talk? In the moment, he’s unsure. Words keep coming to his lips and then simply not making it past. There hadn’t been need for too much conversation in life, and it only makes sense that there wouldn’t be such a need with one party dead and buried.

“Lena’s okay.” Jesse murmurs, after a moment. He must be here to talk. He’s not here to lay a corpse to rest, certainly, a funeral procession of one—an undertaker he is not. “Her legs were in real bad shape when she got out, but she made it back. N’she’s tryin’ t’say t’me every day how sorry she is she couldn’t go back’n get you. I ain’t blamin’ her. M’sure you’d be pissed at me if I did.” He chuckles lightly as he removes the cigarette, breathing out smoke gently and watching it disperse in the cool spring air. “She’s recoverin’, though,” He adds. “Back on her feet’n we’re thinkin’ she’ll be set to go back out into th’field any day now.”

It’s been months. Months since Kyoto. Months since Tracer got hurt. Months since Genji died. There’s been other Null Sector attacks between then and now, and he feels somewhat foolish to still be lingering in Japan, like he hopes for—for what? To see him rise from the grave a second time, with fewer pieces intact? No. No, that’s wishful thinking, painful sort of thinking that makes his eyes burn and his chest feel tighter—or is it the smoke?

Jesse exhales through his teeth.

“I miss you.” He mutters, after a long pause of silence spent just himself and the cherry blossoms drifting through the quiet breeze. “Too damn much.”

He lapses back into the quiet. He’s not expecting a reply, and he doesn’t have anything more to say than that, this ache in his chest of a quiet, painful longing. His head dips forward slightly, and he closes his eyes, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and extinguishing it against his metal hand. Quietly, he ensures it’s extinguished and then tucks it into his pocket.

The comm in his ear chimes, gently.

Jesse opens his eyes.

“McCree,” Echo’s voice lingers, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, m’fine.” He replies. His voice does not falter. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“I only wanted to check in. Will you be coming to extraction soon?”

“Yeah.” Jesse tilts his head back again, lifting his flesh hand to scratch at his beard. “I’ll be headin’ your way in… ah, few more minutes.”

“Alright.”

He’s not angry about the interruption. Jesse knows full well that if he stayed still and quiet for too long he’d be inclined to spend hours here; he’d done the same for his Ma, and he’d damn well do the same for Genji, sitting a silent vigil and wishing to himself that things had gone differently. He can’t afford to do that. This is delaying resources and mission plans for his own selfish reasons—and yet, he knows not a single member of the team would blame him. He and Genji had not been hiding their relationship, and they’ve been treating him oddly gently since Kyoto. McCree’s grown tired of the apologetic glances and the sympathetic voices, just as much as he understands their efforts to be kind. They mean well. They’ve all always meant well. They’re mourning too, as far as he understands, but in a different state than his own, and not one that he’s quite equipped to share.

A final sigh, and Jesse rubs at his eyes before he moves to stand up, stretching briefly. Hands in his pockets, eyes closed, head bowed. He’d say a prayer if he were the type, but for the moment, all he can manage is the steady movement of his hand to rest atop the cold, weathered stone of the grave, fingers spread out across it as he lingers.

Something glints in the quieting sunlight, in the grass to the side of the stone as he opens his eyes.

His attention drifts down to the small glint in the light, and he furrows his brows as he kneels, metal hand brushing away the flora in order to see what had caught his eye. A little trinket rests in the grass, slightly obscured by dust and mud. It’s made very obvious that it isn’t carved wood as his hand closes around it—the old man hadn’t made this one. McCree lifts his prosthetic hand closer to his face, looking down at the small, elegantly carved piece. His other hand moves gradually to rub away the clinging dirt and grass, his brows furrowing slightly as he looks down at it glinting in the light.

It’s a little dragon. Smaller than the palm of his hand, he can see etched scales, claws, and teeth in delicate jade. One of its paws is raised as if it were about to strike at some unseen enemy, mouth open to bite and tail curled in what he halfway suspects is almost playful. It’s not an unfamiliar symbol, all things considered; it reminds him of Genji’s dragon, of the rare occasions he’d seen that angry, winding thing pulsing through his body and his blade. Jesse purses his lips and exhales.

“Must be yours, huh?” He glances down towards the gravestone, thumb running over the weathered trinket. He can tell it’s been here for a long time—it hasn’t been left recently, if the way the dirt sticks to it is anything to go by. He hesitates.

The reasonable thing to do would be to leave it behind. A jade dragon, found at Genji’s gravestone, which had been placed there shortly after Hanzo had killed him—Jesse knows damn well it belongs to him, and that someone had left it there for a reason. He’s not superstitious—and it would benefit more than it would harm him, this particular ghost—and yet there’s the lingering thought that it may as well be _grave-robbing,_ should he pocket it and wander off. On the other hand… His golden eyes drift gradually down towards the etches in the gravestone again, cupping the little jade dragon in both hands now that most of the dirt has been wiped away. It’s for Genji. It’s some memory of Genji, something treasured and important, and something so very easily missed had he not bothered to give it a good look.

Another exhale through his teeth, and he shakes his head slightly, his fist closing around it—gently.

“Y’can be mad at me for stealin’ from you another time.” Jesse muses as he looks back down to the grave, taking a brief moment to run his thumb over the carved jade dragon once more before tucking it into a pocket on his coat. “How ‘bout this—I’ll bring it back next time I visit, yeah?” There’s no ifs or maybes about it, he knows. He’ll only keep himself away as long as it’s not safe for him to be in Hanamura, and Null Sector’s gradual encroaching is only a threat so long as he pays attention to it.

McCree lingers in the silence for a moment longer, absently wishing for _some_ sort of response, and then lifts his hand to his ear to activate his comm.

“Echo,” He says, “Are y’still waitin’ on me?”

“Yes I am, Jesse.” Her reply comes in pleased, musical tones.

“I’m headin’ yer way. Keep th’engine runnin’, guessin’ it’s time we headed back.”

“I will chart our course for Gibraltar.”

“Thanks, sugar.”

He does his best to walk softly as he leaves the Shimada’s graveyard, the carved jade dragon a cool weight against his heart from its place in the inner pocket of his jacket.

McCree hears rather than feels it when he and Echo are disembarking from the ship; the quick, breezy sound that signals Lena Oxton moving as fast as she can towards him is hard to miss. Jesse shifts back on his heels slightly to brace himself on reflex, just in case, but the result is the sensation of willowy arms wrapping around him tight and squeezing.

“Howdy, Lena.” Jesse drawls with a slight laugh, putting his hand on the top of her head. “Miss me?”

“We were worried about you two!” The woman’s tone takes on one of obvious scolding as she steps back enough to look at him, her hands remaining on his jacket. “You didn’t check in for hours. Where were you?”

“Hanamura.” Echo interrupts Jesse after he opens his mouth, and he glances between the two of them with a brief moment of embarrassment that’s only made worse by the expression that crosses Lena’s face.

“Oh,” Tracer starts, “Oh, I’m—Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Naw, Lena, s’fine.” McCree puts his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it.”

He looks her up and down on reflex. It’s a small miracle that she’s up and on her feet again, all things considered; the braces up and down her legs seem to be doing a good job getting her back in action, and as far as he knows they’ll be coming off soon enough. Medical miracle, he muses—or just the fact that Ziegler knows what she’s doing. Steadying her briefly, he musters a grin for her, tilting his head towards her slightly.

“Yer lookin’ better.” He comments, and Tracer grins in return, giving a shrug.

“Emily’s been telling me she’s just glad m’not in a wheelchair.” Her tone is somewhere between affectionate and exasperated, and Jesse is briefly glad that the apologetic glint in her eyes is gone. “Angela says I should be ready to go to the next step any day now.”

“That’s good.” Jesse nods again. “Real good t’hear, sugar, glad you’re recoverin’.”

“Have we missed anything important?” Echo reinserts herself delicately into the conversation, drifting closer to Jesse and Lena with her hands outstretched slightly. She’s always reminded Jesse of a particularly elegant sort of insect, those graceful ways she moves. Tracer pauses briefly, brows furrowing in thought, before she makes a noise that’s mostly noncommittal.

“You missed some things in the couple of days you’ve been out, but we’re not sure how important.” Lena sighs through her nose, clearly as frustrated as she is restless. “Null Sector’s been mostly quiet lately—nothing’s happening outside of the places they’ve already got under their control. Some trouble in Kyoto, Rio, a little bit of a resurgence in Paris, but none of it’s anything at all. It’s like they’re—”

“Waitin’ for somethin’?” Jesse finishes for her, and Echo gives a displeasured noise.

“Yeah.” Lena shakes her head. “C’mon.” She gestures for them to follow. “Winston’s gotta have it all set for you to take a look at yourself, and it might be better if you did.”

The walk through the rest of the Gibraltar base is quiet, and Jesse is silently grateful for it. The core truth of the matter is that they have no god damned idea what Null Sector is after. The theory at first had been that they’d been hunting for the God AIs; but then, that only held true with the Kyoto Omnium, as Egypt and the Temple of Anubis had been largely untouched, and Rio had seemed to be less of an attempt to stake some sort of claim and more an effort to simply announce their presence, as had Paris. It’s nerve-wracking to be facing the problem without enough information to be certain and trying to meditate on it too long has been giving him a headache. They have some sort of motivation. Some sort of goal to match their modus operandi, _something_ other than attacking human population centers on a whim. They’ve planted their flags, established their centers, and are sending out cautious, spindly fingers from them. But aside from the occasional danger of omnics being dragged into the Null Sector ideologies with no warning—mass hacking was new—there’s nothing to tell them what they’re after aside from the generic villain motivation of world domination.

Subjugation of the human race, probably. What else did megalomaniac supervillains without a hint of clear motivation want? Jesse digs in his coat pocket for his cigarettes, fingers brushing briefly against the jade dragon as he rolls his eyes and pulls the pack and his lighter out, not taking very long at all to place it between his teeth. He breathes in the smoke slowly as they walk towards Winston’s lab.

It’s something of a surprise to find the place empty; Tracer explains with a wave of her hand that Winston and Dr. Ziegler had a meeting arranged about one thing or another, and that she and Athena know how to handle helping Jesse catch up. Echo gives a series of chirps, beeps, clicks and hums as they cross the threshold—

“Upload complete.” Echo hums.

“What’d y’share with her, pumpkin?” Jesse questions, and Echo tilts her head towards him, blinking those wide eyes.

“Our trip to Hanamura.” She replies. “Should I not have?”

“Naw. If y’took pictures y’liked, keep ‘em.”

“Are you still doing that, Echo?” Tracer’s half-hobbled and half-blinked to the centralized computer screen, tapping her fingers on the keyboard smoothly and much quicker than Jesse thinks he’d have been able to. More screens flicker into existence around the few Winston already has established, displaying various loading bars and buffering screens. It’s not a surprise that things are a bit rickety; most of the Watchpoint is practically a skeleton. Athena’s symbol flickers in the bottom right corner of each screen, proving she’s out to aid the process. “What’d you see?”

“I had been tracking weather patterns,” Echo explains as Jesse settles himself against the wall to have his smoke out of the way of their conversation. “Cloud formations and the expected travel of the wind. As well as the growth of the cherry blossom trees, to compare to what would have been seen normally.”

“What for?” Lena’s question holds genuine interest, and Jesse allows himself a slight smile. Echo is relaxing—she’s satisfied she’s done the right thing.

“Weather patterns indicate the changes in climate, and I know that Doctor Zhou would be interested to look at the data when she is able to.” A smile flickers across Echo’s holographic features. “And I took the photographs for the rest of the team to see that Hanamura is both still standing and properly evacuated. Jesse and I went to different parts of the city, though…” She trails off, looking towards him for some form of continuation.

“I visited the Shimada Compound.” McCree says, easy as ever, gesturing towards Tracer with his cigarette. “No squatters. Still a ghost town. I ain’t expectin’ that to become a problem.” There’s a pause that hangs in the air, the inhaled breath before something follows, but Jesse doesn’t keep talking. Lena’s looking over her shoulder at him, briefly, and he can see her teeth digging into her bottom lip. They’re waiting. He doesn’t satisfy them.

“You should sit, Lena.” Echo speaks for him, dragging a chair from the meeting table on the other side of the room towards the bank of computers. “You have been standing for too long, according to Doctor Ziegler’s instructions.”

“ _Ugh._ ” Tracer sighs, dramatically, but relents, and the conversation shifts back as the screens flicker back, loading up the information that she’d been requesting in the first place.

The central screen holds a map of the globe, displayed in flat blue and pulsing gently with it’s continuous refreshing—Athena is still collecting data. Within it, purple markings of perfect and precise outlines that do not move or falter in the slightest with each update. It’s mostly over population centers—Rio and Kyoto are thoroughly covered in purple, as well as London, Paris, Berlin, and Moscow. A few cities in America have the same fate: Los Angeles, most notably, though Chicago and New York have their own blinking purple squares. Each city displays thin red lines outstretched, almost imperceptible at first glance, and Jesse moves nearer to examine it with a soft noise of displeasure.

“They’re setting themselves up and digging down roots.” Lena explains as she sits back in the chair, careful of her leg braces and making an effort to make herself comfortable. “There hasn’t been any sign of planned invasion, or even any escalation on the people in the areas they’ve got under lockdown.” She breathes out, slowly. McCree feels a pang in his chest—knowing London’s under Null Sector’s control must hurt her. “We keep expecting an alarm to go off and signal some kind of aggression, but there’s nothing—there hasn’t even been anything from _Talon_ , and if somebody was going to capitalize on all of this, we’d expect Doomfist to.” The woman utters a frustrated noise and tips her head back against the chair.

Jesse examines the squares, eyes lingering briefly on the red threads stretching out from Kyoto across the rest of the island. The fact that they haven’t heard anything from Talon doesn’t shock him as much as he thinks they’d expect it to. All three of them—and hell, most of the World’s goverments—are at a stalemate. There’s a precipice, here, the lingering uncertainty between if this is going to be considered the Second Omnic Crisis or if Null Sector will simply plant down their roots and become the new normal. After all, some of their tamer doctrine was remarkably reasonable; the desire for Omnics to be considered more than second class citizens was something most reasonable folks were in favor of. The problem was that most of it, based by pamphlets and hacked holopads and the sounds through the dominated streets, crowed about _Omnic Superiority_. Omnics as greater-than, omnics as better-than, omnics as superior-to. Intelligent omnics were nothing new, though few encountered in the Crisis were, but intelligent omnics who knew how to create a threat—that scared people. Far more than the thought of a merciless machine just acting on it’s programming did. What can be done about it, being faced with an enemy both human and more-than?

“Talon’s waitin’ t’see what we do.” McCree murmurs, extinguishing his cigarette on his metal hand. He puts the butt in his coat pocket, feels it jostle against the jade dragon. “Either t’take our side or Null Sector’s, I don’t know, but they ain’t gonna poke their heads out ‘til we do.”

“And Null Sector’s going to force us to act eventually.” Tracer follows his line of thought smoothly with a grimace on her face. “They’re making sure they have everything they need while not letting us know what they’re doing, and…”

“Eventually they’re gonna strike somewhere, n’we’re gonna be on the back foot.” He finishes, sighing breathily. “What’re they targetin’ most, have you seen?”

“Uh…” Lena looks between him and the screens and shakes her head. “I haven’t—I haven’t looked at this much, to be honest, I only followed based on what Winston’s briefing was. Echo, did you—”

“Scanning data.” Echo hums. “I can see consistencies.” Her face flickers briefly, matching the pulsing screens. She doesn’t bother moving her eyes this time; no need to pretend she’s reading anything, when her connection with Athena is simply uploading it directly to her mind. McCree shifts back, leaning against the wall and staring silently at the red-and-purple decorating the map.

After a moment’s pause, Echo drifts forward, extending delicate fingers to press against one of the screens. The purple boxes are alight suddenly with more red dots, blinking this time, identical shapes that cluster around them and the areas that the thin tendrils expand to.

“They have rooted themselves in population centers they deem important,” Echo says, “but the focus is on certain types of buildings. City centers, but for more useful places. Factories and manufacturing, skyscrapers,” Tracer winces, undoubtedly remembering Kyoto, “as well as hospitals and medical centers.”

“Hospitals?” Jesse inquires, raising a brow. “What use’ve they got fer hospitals?”

“I am unsure.” Echo admits as she lowers her hand from the screens. “Kyoto, Rio, London, and Chicago each report that their largest hospital is under Null Sector control. If I had to present a theory regarding controlling hospitals, I would assume that they are after the medical technology, not the people.”

“That’d make sense.” Tracer adds with a tilt of her head. “Some of the machines doing surgeries these days, they’re made to act like they’re thinking for themselves, aren’t they? They’re supposed to be friendly. The lady who invented them claimed it was to put a patient at ease, y’know, the perfect professional who also happens to be mechanically perfect down to everything. Won’t even have a stray twitch!”

“But they ain’t organic. Those machines ain’t made t’work on omnics, they’re made t’fix people.” Jesse grimaces as he shifts his weight again, arms crossing over his chest as he looks back at the two women. “N’I’m gonna go ahead n’doubt that Null Sector’s movin’ into charity work while we got our backs turned.”

“It is something that we will have to investigate, I think.” Echo’s usually placid expression is mimicking McCree’s, holographic features warped into something of displeasure and something almost like concern. “I am almost certain that they have more motives, but it is impossible to be sure what they are at the moment.”

“What else is there?” Jesse turns his attention back to Echo, instead of looking at the screens. She processes the data much faster than any of them can, anyway. “So they’re after manufacturin’, that’s just makin’ new soldiers for ‘em. Stealin’ hospital tech, we can figure out what they’re doin’ there by way of figurin’ out whatever trickles of information’re comin’ outta their controlled zones. That ain’t all there is, is it? Nothin’ from Talon, no broadcasts from Null Sector?”

Echo’s head tilts to one side as her brows furrow in obvious thought, and her hands move against her chest, threading together in front of her in what is a strikingly human gesture of uncertainty.

“Nothing from Talon, no broadcasts from Null Sector.” She confirms. “I do, however, have a theory on where they may target next.”

“Where?” Tracer’s tone comes across as more urgent than she intends it to, Jesse assumes by way of watching her reflexively shift back in her seat. “We—We could use a lead, any lead at all, and if you’ve got a theory…”

“Well,” Echo gestures to the screens before the three of them, and they begin to flicker and extend. “There are a few notable locations that Null Sector has attempted to get under their control.” Kyoto, London, Moscow. “These were major targets during the Omnic Crisis as well, so I am not surprised that they would have chosen to make them their central bases.”

“Those… Wait, Echo, aren’t those where a few of the Omniums with the big guns were?” Lena questions, leaning forward again. “The—What were they called?”

“Christ.” Jesse curses sharply under his breath, taking his hat off to run his hand through his hair. “God AIs.”

“Yes.” Echo’s tone is apologetic, though neither of them are about to blame her for it. “None of them are meant to have survived the Omnic Crisis, either through having been shut down or destroyed because of it, or in a few cases having deactivated themselves to aid with peace accords.” She’s fidgeting, the blue of her fingers curling and uncurling in front of her. “However, with Null Sector establishing themselves near to where they were meant to be, I think that…” She trails off briefly.

“Yer thinkin’ they might be tryin’ to reactivate the ones that shut themselves off, or else repair the dead ones.” Jesse’s jaw is tight.

“Yes.” Echo repeats. “I believe that they will target Egypt next. The Temple of Anubis, to… in order to reawaken Anubis, and potentially ally with it. I do not know if they will target the Temple or if they will spread towards Cairo, but it is the only theory that I can consider with enough substance to matter.”

McCree exchanges a glance with Lena as he replaces her hat, breathing out slowly through clenched teeth. He can’t speak to her experience with the Omnic Crisis. Hell, he can barely speak to his own; the robots hadn’t come marching on the deserts of Texas and New Mexico, and the worst he’d had to deal with was the roving gangs of bandits and the occasional bout of refugees. He’d been young. Tracer had been even younger, as far as he recalls—did she know any of it? Did her parents tell her stories about the Crisis? Were her earliest memories related at all to any of that fear? She’d been born and raised in London and London was one of the places hit hardest in the Crisis; housing an Omnium and so housing a rogue god did not a comfortable city make. A brief pang of sympathy hits him— war flavored most of their lives, he supposes, in one fashion or another. What good was it to ignore it?

The thought of a second Omnic Crisis has loomed over much of their lives, he knows. Talon’s maliciousness was targeted and calculated, but it was nothing in comparison to the machines, hundreds of thousands of circuits and gears and wires woven and crafted to do little else than exterminate human life. Null Sector was a reminder of it—a reminder of bloodshed, crumbling buildings and darkened skies, how much humanity had had to fight for every inch. And what was it now, with Null Sector taking over as many places as they could, while Overwatch was left to watch and wait, lacking resources and aid and any sort of belief? Is this not the beginning of a war, the beginning of another conflict set to reopen a barely-healed wound, to sink blades and fingers and sharpened screws into scar tissue best left alone?

The silence stretches on, and for a moment Jesse would almost rather leave it there. There’s a sense of panic instilled in all three of them, he knows, a tightness in his chest of old fears dredging themselves up at the thought of the oncoming danger. They can’t be proactive because they don’t know the scale of the threat. They can’t react to the threat because it hasn’t shown itself to be anything more than an invading force, and they don’t have the resources to challenge it. So they sit on their hands. So they watch, and wait, and Jesse feels something like anger bubbling up somewhere in his chest.

“You should bring that up t’Winston and Dr. Ziegler, Echo.” He says, softening his tone. “They’ll need t’know ‘bout it so we can figure out what our next step is.”

“Of course.” Her apologetic expression has not faltered.

“I think I need t’get some rest.” It takes effort to keep his voice gentle, but he knows that his fears and frustrations are better kept away from Tracer and Echo. They’ll fuss. “You call me if somethin’ happens, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tracer lifts her hand in something of a salute. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, yeah? Dr. Ziegler’s still waiting to hear from you on—”

“I know.” Jesse waves his hand dismissively, standing straight from his place against the wall in order to roll his shoulders and turn towards the doorway. “Y’can tell her I’m back if y’wanna, but I’m plannin’ on crashin’ for a while. They’ll have t’wait fer me t’check in.”

“Sure.” Tracer sits back slightly, hesitating. He knows that look on her face. She wants to say something else. To dig into him, perhaps, ask him why he’d delayed in Hanamura so long even though she _knows_ why, because they want him to talk. He’s not interested. “Goodnight,” She says, instead.

“G’night.” McCree moves quietly through the doorway of Winston’s lab and out into the darkening hallways, heading directly towards the barracks without a moment’s thought.

The Watchpoints of Overwatch were mostly constructed in the same layout, give or take the occasional change made exclusively because of the surrounding landscape. Cafeterias, med bays, and barracks were constructed as closely to the original blueprint of Zurich as was possible, and this was exclusively a logistical issue as far as McCree knew; it was easier not to get lost when you had to move from place to place around the globe when you always knew where you’d eat your meals, where you’d go for help, and where you’d rest your head at night. He’s halfway sure that he could make these kinds of walks in his sleep if he had to, and thinks that after long Blackwatch missions he may very well have allowed his legs to carry him into the dark in a dreamlike state, collapsing into the nearest empty cot and waking just in time for new orders. There had been talks, every now and again, about installing apartments for upper level agents. Military barracks were all well and good for their initial purpose, but when Overwatch began inviting researchers, educators and free agents, and they had begun bringing their families into these so-called military installations, there had been questions on just where exactly they would be allowed to stay. So, some barracks had been converted—luxury is the furthest word away from what they’d be described as, but the apartments that had been retrofitted into the Watchpoint were nicely called cozy and suited better for the long-term stays that had begun to be expected of threadbare barracks and quiet hallways.

With most of Overwatch still having the unfortunate circumstance of being dead, MIA, or smartly deciding not to answer the recall, the two-bedroom apartments are empty and only a few of the single-bedrooms are occupied. When he steps into his very own home, he thinks passively of the amount of dust that had settled over what hadn’t been looted as he locks the door behind him.

McCree sheds his coat, digging in the pocket long enough to produce his pack of cigarettes, lighter, and the still slightly muddy jade dragon. It’s hung up haphazardly on a hook installed by the doorway as he kicks his boots off—the facsimile of domesticity had been important to the sort of folks who were supposed to live here, so his entry way gives way to a living room and an empty stand where a tv should be, a couch dusty enough to make him cough when he walks past it, and the kitchenette tucked behind it. The fridge and stove are new—Winston had been kind enough to build new ones himself for those who had moved in. Save parts, he’d said, practice his engineering on simple things. Mei had helped.

Jesse moves silently towards the small hallway that leads off to the bathroom and his bedroom at the end of it, taking a quick step to the side to turn the light on in the bathroom and set the jade dragon down on the counter, along with his cigarettes and lighter.

The bedroom’s not much more comfortable than the rest of the place. The bed is, at least, larger than a twin; the idea had been that it was meant for two people, but neither of them had wanted to be too far away even in their sleep. Not that a twin would’ve stopped them. He’s got memories enough of the stray elbow jabbing into his side, an arm wrapped tight around his neck because he _clings_ too much when he’s asleep, the sensation of soft, sleepy breathing on his throat. Light filters in through the window, but Jesse remains in the dark as he undresses completely, staring absentmindedly at the bed as he methodically removes his clothing.

Naked, he scratches at the place at his shoulder where flesh meets his prosthetic arm. Long days make it sore, and he’s tired enough to consider collapsing into bed, but there’s more important things for him to busy himself with. Jesse moves back down the hallway towards the bathroom, turning the knob on the tub and stopping the drain just as soon as it’s hot enough. He didn’t bother closing the door.

His ascetic lifestyle had been a natural procession. Hard to own much when you’re on the run, and he still doubts that he’s got much going for him should the outside looking in suddenly realize Overwatch is working with a man carrying a sixty-million dollar bounty. It helped, then, that his partner had had little else to fill the empty apartment with, though for a different reason than his own; death didn’t let you carry much along with you, and when you’d long since assumed that was it, you didn’t have much use for trinkets.

Running the sink cold, Jesse lifts up the carved jade dragon. His thumb trails over scales and smooth edges, and he is almost reverent as he lowers it under the cool running water while the steam from the tub fills the air. Gentle fingers rub away the dirt and grime that had accumulated—how long had it been there, sitting out among the gravestones, exposed to the same heat and wind and chill? It seems in remarkably good shape for something that had been left alone for the greater part of a decade, and Jesse does his best to be as delicate about it as he can be, brushing away the clinging mud until he can pull it out from under the water and be satisfied he’s done a good job.

There’s an ache in his chest, somewhere dull beneath his collarbone, and he doesn’t look himself in the mirror as his fingers trace over the gemstone in his hands, feeling every last detail and gesture. The color’s perfect, a gleaming and beautiful shade of green that seems so very alive. It almost seems to ripple under his hands, like the serpentine design was about to pull itself away from the small red stand it was placed upon when it was finished and slither it’s way down his hallway and to his window. It isn’t the sort of creature to be placed on display, he knows; isn’t the sort of creature to be kept like something pretty to look at. It’s a signifier in and of itself, and part of him feels guilty for having taken it away from its vigil.

He doesn’t need a reminder, does he? The reminder comes only in the form of silence in the apartment, only just too small for two and yet too big to not feel alone in. There’s no need for souvenirs and tokens; the dust gives him that, as does the quiet and the dark. The dull ache beneath his collarbone is enough. The soft emptiness is enough. What more does he need?

What more is there to ask for?

“God AIs.” He mutters under his breath in a tone of sheer disdain, setting the dragon down on the countertop as he works to steel himself. “Christ, we just ain’t gettin’ any kinda break, are we?” Jesse’s fingers linger on it for a moment longer before he releases it entirely. There’s no time for this, he knows. Too much to worry about. Too much to analyze and be concerned about, and yet he is dedicating so much of his time to this, to his mourning, to his loss. He wants to grieve as they expect him to grieve, and yet there is no room for theatrics. Part of him would have preferred to have a body—at least then closure would be physical, and he would not be staking his heart on a carved jade dragon he had as much right to keep as any other grave robber would.

The water in the bath is too hot, but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he turns the tap off and steps gingerly into it. Sinking into the tub, Jesse breathes out slowly, feeling the heat ease the tension in tired muscles and relieve the itch of the scar tissue at his prosthetic. It’s in no danger of overflowing, but he’s just slightly too tall to submerge himself as much as he’d like to, and he knows better than to think he’ll be able to relax much these days.

Golden eyes linger silently on the green dragon, head tipped back against the bathroom wall and the bathroom filled with nothing but the soft drip of the faucet.


End file.
